The Lone Wanderer's Replacement
by sarcasticrocker86
Summary: What happens when the Lone Wanderer is too lazy to go out into the perilous Capital Wasteland herself? Simple. Make the Ghoul do it. But when Charon stumbles onto a job, it becomes far larger than just a simple contract killing... *HIATUS!*
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Unemployment**

Charon was deep in thought as he waited for Carol to bring him his food. He sat at the bar of Carol's Place, the dank air of Underworld something he was no longer used to. The lights were dimmed, not for atmosphere, but because of the generator's lack of power. Charon cared little in the long run, he was much too busy in his thoughts. Not a word. No one had said a single word to him since he had entered Underworld. Well, that wasn't counting Patchwork, Snowflake, and Carol. Patchwork wanted drinking money, Snowflake wanted to give Charon a haircut, and Carol would have a smile for a head hunter.

But not Winthrop, not Quinn, not Tulip, not even Cerberus seemed to acknowledge him. It made Charon wonder. Not offended—Charon had had to put up with far to many indignities to be offended by anything anymore, but curious.

They couldn't possibly have been upset with Ahzrukahl. At least, he hoped they wouldn't be. Some of the _evil_ he had done, some of the evil he had had Charon do...

Maybe that was the reason, he mused, for the cold shoulder. Charon had been under orders, sure, but they didn't have to like him for it. He gave a swift glance around the bar. Did they all just loathe him now?

Or.. Charon worried his nearly burned off lips as he mused. Maybe they just hadn't noticed him. Charon recalled his first few days in Underworld. They had ogled him with curiosity, tried to open up conversations, and talked about him obsessively for a short while. But, since Charon's standing orders had been to remain seen, not heard, Charon had faded into the background, becoming little more than added décor of the Ninth Circle. And old habits die hard. On both ends.

Charon was so lost in thought, that when his food was brought to him, he began cutting his Brahmin steak with his knife turned upside down; the hilt uselessly rubbing against the tough meat.

"Well, look at this!" a voice finally snapped the Ghoul out of his trance. "Charon! That you?"

Charon didn't bother to turn. He knew the voice well enough.

"How are you doing, boy?" the owner of the voice patted Charon's back and sat on the stool beside him.

Charon said, "Crowley," but it came out as more of a growl than a name or greeting.

Mr. Crowley didn't seem to notice the violence in Charon's voice, and spoke with far too much ease. "Haven't seen you around in a while. Not since that smoothskin bought your contract and you shot the crap out of Ahzrukahl." Crowley laughed. "That was the best show I've seen in years! It's just too bad it had to be with the only dealer down here, but well worth it, nevertheless."

At the mention of the incident with Ahzrukahl, Charon immediately tensed. However, still not realizing he was holding the knife the wrong way, the blade bit into his hand. With a cry of both frustration and surprise he dropped the now bloody dagger onto the plate.

"Jeez!" Greta ran over to the two Ghouls. "What did you do _now_!"

Charon's only response was a grumbled curse.

"Alright," Greta tossed a dirty handkerchief in Charon's face. "Wrap that around your wound." She stared at the bloodied food. "And if you want a fresh plate, you're gonna haveta pay. Down here, we charge for stupidity."

"Greta!" Carol's voice sounded like ground in lollipops to Charon. "Leave the poor boy alone! We don't want him running away again, do we?" Carol appeared, smiling at him.

Greta's glare continued, however. "What's he going to do if I don't? _Shoot me?_"

Now it was Charon's turn to glare. "Just be glad," he replied coolly, "that I didn't get a chance to fulfill Ahzrukahl's final order." He turned back to his hand and began to enfold it in the cloth that had once been white.

Greta stuttered over him for a moment, the understanding of his veiled threat obvious. Finally, she muttered to Carol about taking her break, grabbed her cigarettes, and hurried out the door.

When Carol was preoccupied with the food, Crowley let out a long whistle. "That's some temper you got there," he said. "Where is that bratty smoothskin, anyway? You finally wised up and screwed that contract, huh?"

Charon stared at Crowley as though he had just spoken blasphemy. Crowley, hard as he was, couldn't help but shiver and turn from Charon's gaze.

"Alright, alright. Forget I said anything. So why are you by your lonesome, then?"

Charon looked back to his makeshift bandage, tightening it's hold on his hand. "Orders."

Crowley waited for him to say more, but Charon was intent today on disappointing him. Finally, Crowley sighed in exasperation and said. "Ah, screw you, you freakin' shoot-first-and-ask-later slave. I could have a better conversation with Patchwork on his worst day." Crowley rose to leave. Charon stared straight on ahead, waiting to hear the sound of Crowley's departure. Instead, he heard a pause at the door. "Say, Charon, what _are _those orders of yours?"

Charon shook his head. He knew now there would be no getting rid of Crowley.

* * *

"Charon!"

That screech now seemed burned into his head. He loathed the sound of his own name after how many times _she_ had called it.

"Yes, Mistress?" the words dissolved into bitterness in his mouth. He approached her as she lay in the bed and knelt so they met eye to eye. "I am here to serve."

She laughed her shrill laugh, her cheeks swollen with the multiple Fancy Lad Cakes she gorged herself with so often. "Tell me that again, Charon. I just adore hearing it."

Charon sighed. "I am here to serve you and no one else, Mistress. You are my employer and I will always do as you command."

Her shining green eyes, the only redeeming quality about her, sparkled at the statement. "That's right, Charon. I _own_ you."

Charon released his only defense into the air like a dying dove. "I am owned by no one."

Another laugh. Her teeth were unkempt and tinged with yellow. "You don't want to _admit_ you're owned by anyone. But, you see Charon, I could ask you right now to get on your knees and lick the dirt off of my floor. And what would you do then?" She rolled so her head fell upside down in a child-like way. "In fact..."

Charon met her gaze without fear. She loved to toy with him as this. The malign twist of her mouth curved to a cruel smile. "Oh, Charon, tell me what you would do."

"I would obey my commander."

"That's correct, little Charon. Charon, Charon, Charon. I do love that name of yours. And, Charon, what would you do if I asked you to pull out your pistol?"

This was a new game entirely. "I would do it," he replied plainly.

"Why don't you show me, just to be sure? The one you've been tinkering with, the .44 Magnum, was it?"

Charon complied with little hesitance, but much worry. "Good. Now, place it against your head." Her voice was sweet lace twisted in poison.

Charon obeyed.

"Don't you see Charon? All I have to do is say, 'I command you to pull that trigger' and you have to obey. Isn't life so easily... expiratory in your case?"

The Ghoul watched her eyes dance up and down him, studying him. She frowned. "Still in denial, I see. Fine," she waved him off, suddenly bored. "Put that gun back, I'm sick of seeing it. You know, Charon, I didn't get where I am living in denial. Daddy left me, I left him and all he tried to teach me." She smiled. "Did I ever tell you about when I found him? I had been getting rides with Caravaners—I needed the protection, they needed someone to abuse. I spent three months of hell trying to track my father down, and when I did, I realized he had forgotten me for nothing but a dead _dream_. Well, I decided to forget him. He can rot in that stupid old purifier forever. I'm here, and I'm living it up while it lasts." She stood, and reached for the bottle of vodka sitting by the table, starting to gulp it down.

"All right, Charon," her voice sounded tired now. "I have a special present for you."

Charon half expected the package she produced from under her bed to be some kind of bomb, ready to end his misery. He was handed it roughly and ordered to open it. Inside was something he never would have expected: his mistress's Pip-Boy 3000.

"Mistress?" he asked.

"I had it to taken it off of me yesterday. Once that thing goes on, biometric seals keep it on tight. You need either a bone-saw or a professional to get it off." She shrugged and laid back. "But I settled for Moira."

Charon thought that at the rate her arm was fattening, it had been a good idea to take it off. He looked at the Pip-Boy without any idea of what he was supposed to do with the thing.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Charon!" his mistress muttered impatiently. "Put the stupid thing on!"

"As you command," he said simply, fitting the Pip-Boy to his arm. It sealed with a slight hiss.

"It's yours, Charon. I'm not gonna need it anymore. Go now. Get out of here. I don't care where. Just get back here in two months with something to show for it. Caps, food, booze—I don't care. Just do it."

It had been the closest thing to freedom Charon had ever been handed. He looked at his mistress in disbelief for a moment, then nodded. "As you command."

* * *

"My mistress needs caps," Charon replied quietly to Crowley now.

Charon groaned inwardly as Crowley returned to his seat, the gruff ghoul chuckling in a way that said he believed Charon lucky to have Crowley happen along. "Well, kid, looks like I've got a surprise."

Charon frowned. "I'm not going off on that smoothskin kill list you've got, Crowley. It's a scam and we all know it."

"What? No, no. Your 'mistress' took care of that job for me. This one's a job I've got from someone else."

"Yea? Name?"

"You'd never guess: Jabsco. Freaking Jabsco! Talon Company Commander Jabsco. Basically, the job's this: there are three former Talon Company Mercs scattered around the Wastes. They're _those_ mercs, so you can guess they aren't nice guys. One's a slaver, one's a raider leader, and one's a new crime boss of the southwestern Capital Wastes. Jabsco wants them captured and taken back to Fort Bannister."

"Why doesn't he just have his own men do it?"

Crowley laughed crudely. "Have you ever met those mercs? All those meatheads know how to do is 'put heads on plates'. Jabsco wants these guys brought back in one piece."

"Just for him to rip them apart?"

Crowley shrugged. "Your call, kid. They _are_ mercs. You feel up to this job—and you know it'll pay well, go ahead and leg on over to Fort Bannister yourself. To get in, all you gotta say is, 'On a platter'."

"Clever," Charon noted sourly.

"Your choice, Charon. You know it'll do your pockets well, and you can bet your life these men deserve nothing more than a knife in the gut." And with that, Crowley finally left.

Charon sat in silence for a long time in solemn contemplation. Finally, he sighed, looked at his Pip-Boy map, and set a course for Fort Bannister.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Please review! Continuation will depend on reaction of readers. For now, it is a really weird, open-ended one-shot ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Okay, so two reviews, one favorite, and one alert +. Fine. That's plenty to motivate me to write a new chapter. Just hope this one doesn't disappoint. I'm trying to map this out like it could be an actual quest in the game. Next chapter will, again, depend on reaction. Review, would you kindly?

* * *

**Chapter 2: Changing of Hands**

Charon was not in his most charming mood, certainly not feeling well enough to deal with _this_ garbage.

"Keep it moving, Ghoul," the gun forced him on through the dank, dilapidated halls of the fallen Pre-War military base. Charon tried to imagine the American soldiers striding through these halls so many years ago, blissfully unaware of the hell that would come to obliterate them and leave their precious fortress in the hands of hired killers. It seemed like a sad, pathetic fate for this building. But Charon was promised caps from Talon Company, and by coming here he had made a silent vow to himself he would do whatever it was they wished of him. After all, snobbery was a trait that rarely survived long in the Wasteland.

Charon had been patted down, weapons relinquished from him, and was now being led through the underground levels at gunpoint to his destination. He kept an eye ahead as every corridor was revealed to him, trying to map it out in his head for later possible uses. As he was lead, he was able to note the two main types of mercenaries scouring these halls: the veterans and the inexperienced. The new mercenaries were little more than children with guns. They were wanna-be desperadoes with as more bark than a rabid dog and no more bite than a newly hatched mirelurk. Either age or a bullet would catch up with them eventually. Until then, they were nearly intolerable. But easy to spot. Charon watched as they would stand tall as he passed, guns drawn and gripped tightly, a look of desired toughness on their faces. Some would even mock Charon as he passed by, trying to instigate a fight to the unarmed, virtual prisoner. These were easily ignorable, and Charon felt neither fear nor timidity of them.

What he _did_ know had to be watched were the experienced Talon Company mercs. These were the men who spotted Charon as he rounded a corner, stopped, and watched him warily as he passed, noting him with caution. Maybe a hand would reach to a sidearm, but little more. Subtlety was the strength of the knowledgeable. Charon met each one in the eyes with the same look of wariness, keeping each face locked away in the back of his head. These men were to be minded of.

Finally, Charon was halted before a door. "Okay, Ghoul," the Gun said. Charon saw no face. "Personally, I'd like to use your irradiated waste of space for target practice. But Jabsco's orders are Jabsco's orders, so I've got to let you in. So, here's the usual treatment..."

A strike from the butt of the Gun met the back of Charon's head with a sound _Crack!_ The surprise of the blow nearly left him on the floor. The Gun continued, "Try anything in there, and you'll feel a thousand times more pain than that. And then your head is as good as on a plate."

Charon suppressed the desire to roll his eyes. With all the heads on plates he wondered what Jabsco could possibly want with them. Charon immediately regretted the question in his mind.

The doors opened as soon as he was close enough; the little bit of electricity the makeshift generator could give was just barely enough for the automatic doors. In the Wastes, it was now considered a luxury. A sign of wealth. Charon could not help but smirk. This job would make his mistress _very _pleased...

And that was worth all of the concussions in the world.

Commander Jabsco was not as old as might be expected. In fact, Charon could hazard to guess that the young man was merely the lucky inheritor of the mercenary group. In this line of work, rarely was there ever a guarantee of either a long life or a good successor. These were, yet again, luxuries rarely afforded in the Wastes.

Jabsco stood staring over a table, studying plans or strategies. As Charon entered, he looked up and smiled. "Looks like Crowley finally sent someone from Underworld. About time." He glanced behind Charon. "You can leave us," he dismissed the Gun.

Charon watched as Jabsco looked at his plans once more, as though making sure of something. He looked back up to Charon. "Sorry. There are quite a few things going on right now. You ever hear of the Enclave?"

"I hear drabbles on the radio."

"Elitist morons, if you ask me. They're making a big return, you know. War's coming. But anyway, that's not why I called for you. Drink?"

"No," Charon said. Alcohol barely affected such as Ghouls.

Jabsco had not seemed to expect such a response. "Okay. Have a seat, at least."

Charon obeyed the request.

Jabsco began, "I don't do this much. I hate it, actually. I have no idea who you are and I've never met you before. But I have to trust you, anyway. Look, just tell me who you think you are."

"They call me Charon."

Jabsco waited. Charon said no more. The commander sighed. "Fine," he said. "If we have to play like this, I will. Listen, Charon, I don't like to do this, as I have already said. You came to me for a job. I need something specific and I need it now, but what I need the most is a man I can trust. If I can't trust you, why would I hire you? And if I don't hire you... well, then you're completely useless to me. And if you're useless to me, then I will find my own use for you. And, Charon, I can promise you you won't like it."

Charon huffed. He stood and said, "Commander, I am Charon. There is no other way to describe myself. I am who you want me to be. Nothing more. Nothing less. I am here to serve you."

Jabsco was taken aback. "Let's try this again," he said. "Tell me how you got to where you are."

* * *

Charon stood like a statue at his post, trying very hard to block out the sounds coming from Ahzrukahl's back room, where the bar owner had just taken two female Ghouls in with him. Charon had been the one ordered to put the Ant pheromones in the women's drinks earlier that evening. Finding the pheromones itself had been nearly impossible, blocking out the guilt had been another thing entirely. Months, even years of practice at keeping his emotions at a stand still, he still struggled.

Charon, trying to distract himself, thought back to the smoothskin woman that he had seen almost a week ago. For some reason, her presence had left a wariness in Charon. He wasn't sure why, but he had a stomach lurching feeling about her. He shook his head. She was gone. He had nothing to worry about.

But, as though appearing from his thoughts, the young woman opened the double doors dramatically and swept in, a cocky smile hard on her lips. Her clothes were clean, her rifle shining on her back from being cleaned, her hair neat and cut. Wherever she had come from, she had emerged in victory.

"Ahzrukahl!" she called out.

"Sit down," Charon told her. "He will be out in a few moments."

"Where is he?"

Before Charon could give an answer, Ahzrukahl appeared in a dirty Pre-War robe, whistling. Charon's lips curled in disgust. The woman chuckled, completely aware of what Ahzrukahl had appeared from doing.

"Well, well," Ahzrukahl said to the woman upon his notice of her. "It's you. You're looking well. Win the lottery? Or were you out collecting ears, hmm?"

She smiled with no end of charm. "Uncovered the Declaration of Independence, actually," she replied casually. "How was your day?"

"Ah, that was you, was it? I believe I've heard _some_ rumors of it. I also heard you left your partner for dead, did you not?"

She shrugged, "She left me, really. Decided the treasure was worth finding for herself as soon as we got through the toughest hordes of Super Mutants together. So I shot her in the legs, and told we whoever made it there first got the treasure. I don't take well to abandonment, do you?"

"I wouldn't know. Now, if you are here on business, I will be happy to discuss the matter in private..."

She laughed coarsely. "No, no. The counter is just fine. I have more than enough to avoid _that_ option."

Charon watched them move to the counter. The woman paid for a bottle of beer and the two began to speak in low voices. Charon shut his eyes for a moment. He had never been one for eavesdropping, and Ahzrukahl still wanted a plan to kill Greta. The idea made him sick, but the option of disobeying an order made him feel even worse. It always gave the Ghoul a headache just imagining it. Charon clenched his fists. He must follow his contract. That was his honor.

Presently, Charon heard footsteps approaching. His eyes fluttered open and he instinctively clutched the handle of his knife.

It was the woman.

"Talk to—" Charon began to say like a robot, but stopped before the "Ahzruhkahl" when the woman waved something in his face.

"Oh, no. None of that. I have your contract now. See? You're mine now."

The words hit him like a splash of cold water. He looked at the woman for a long time. Then, suddenly, realization set in. "If you are my new employer, then I must take care of something first. Excuse me."

"Wait, excuse me?" his new boss asked, but he was already at the counter.

"Ahzruhkahl," Charon called his now former employer, "I hear I am no longer in your employ. Is this true?"

Ahzruhkahl had been partly through the doorway back into the back room, but, upon seeing Charon, laughed and shut the door again to have his last goodbye. He smiled in his scoundrel way. "It's true, Charon. Come to say goodbye?"

"Yes."

There was a gunshot. Then another. The room erupted in cries of shock and horror.

"What happened?"

"Charon shot Ahzruhkahl!"

"Should we get Cerberus?"

"I... I always thought Charon liked Ahzruhkahl..."

"I knew Charon would do something like this eventually!"

But Charon wasn't listening to them. He only watched Ahzruhkahl fall to the ground. Charon took a breath in, the fresh blood's smell lingering in the air. The pleasure, the insane pleasure, felt wonderful to Charon. He had a perfect moment to revel in the joy of justice being satisfied. Relieved, he turned to the woman, who was smiling in amusement.

"This, my dear Charon," she said, "is going to work out perfectly.

* * *

"You have to obey any and all orders given to you by your employer?"

"Yes."

"And now your current order is to make some scratch?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. All right, Chraon. I think this is worth trying out. How would you feel about a trial run?"

"Trial run?"

"Well, Charon, you have quite the nice story, but I don't just listen to a story and trust that to be true. That would be quite the folly. Let's see if you can obey a simple order." Jabsco leaned back. "I want you to find a gun for me."

"Excuse me?"

"Just what I said. There is a special gun available in an old weapon's depot not far from here. You grab it for me, and you're as good as hired. You can't get it... and I'm sure the problem will correct itself at that point."

Charon frowned, but stood. "As you command."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Okay, you asked for it. New chapter, same song. Reviews mean inspiration, so thank you, all who have commented last time and please give me feedback this time around. This story would be getting it's eulogy now if it weren't for you guys.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Bigger Scars Make Better Stories**

Charon was beyond doubt. He was beyond wonder. It was hard to have a curious mind when he was a slave of sorts to his employer. But he didn't care anymore about that. He had to be focused, and that could hardly be accomplished with an unsound mind, busy trying to find the _how's_ and _why's _of every action or command.

So he approached the abandoned weapon's depot, no more than a few miles from Fort Bannister, with a wary mind, but not a doubting one. He understood there was more to this than Jabsco had let on. A cache no more than ten miles away and he sends someone here _now_? No, Charon saw completely Jabsco had some sort of test in mind much deeper than a simple errand. Charon stood outside the inconspicuous cluster of small, broken buildings. He knew the vault of heavy weapons Jabsco had spoken of would be hidden underground. Access to it was somewhere in those buildings. Charon was little worried about that. It was any other secrets they could hold Charon worried of. For all he knew, there was a merc with a knife for Charon's own back in there.

Charon searched his pack for a singular item. The Stealth Boy 3001. He smiled at it. It was practically made for a Pip-Boy. He fit it onto his device with a a pleased smile and set it to activate. With the Pip-Boy's power conservation, the Stealth Boy would last twice as long. Charon could almost feel his own transparency as the shield reflected off of him, making him virtually invisible. It was pleasing, but he had to be careful. There were stories of abuse leading to a loss of sanity and a gain of extreme paranoia. Charon would be careful of that. But for now, he was safe from whatever it was that awaited him inside the depot.

The sun was setting against the mountain peeks in the distance, it's heat fading to the cool night. The sand blew against the wind gently under Charon's boots. He allowed himself to take in the peace of it all for a moment. He shut his eyes and sighed. If he relaxed enough, the darkness of his lids would form a dream. A dream of something very, very far away...

* * *

The gunshot resounded the small room. The prisoner fell, gripping his leg in pain. If this kept up, there would be little left to interrogate.

"This is becoming dull at an alarming rate for _you_, soldier," the interrogator knelt by the injured prisoner. "If you do not cooperate soon, we will be forced to take other measures." The interrogator jabbed his thumb toward the third man in the room, the one with the smoking gun in his hand. "He is a less patient man than I, you see."

That was a lie. The one with the gun had absolutely no say in the matter, whatsoever. He was the subordinate, and he was to do as the interrogator commanded. He was the muscle, the interrogator the brain.

But it didn't matter. His superior wanted information from this enemy soldier. He was going to do whatever for his commander needed to get whatever it was he wanted. This soldier was an enemy, anyway. The subordinate cared little for the fate of those he had sworn to fight against in this war.

Yet, still, the obedient soldier held the gun with a manner of contempt. The cool metal burned in his hands. His hardness threatened to melt at this torture session. He clenched the gun tighter, gritting his teeth. Protect and serve. That was his duty as a soldier. This war was turning ugly. He had to stay strong. If he fell, he was letting down his whole world. His country. His home. His family.

"Oh, Charon?" the interrogator called him back from his thoughts of home. "Would you kindly explain to this young man about what happens when he ceases to be useful to us?"

Charon said, "Yes, sir. It is a very simple explanation."

"Actually, Charon," the his commander stood and moved away from the prisoner. He began to adjust the medals on his uniform absently as he said, "He seems to be quite a slow one. Why don't you just show him?"

Charon nodded solemnly, "Yes, sir. As you command."

* * *

Charon snapped his eyes back open. His mind returned to the Wasteland with haste. He loathed times like these. Times when he heard soft echoes of a life long gone. His indoctrination had destroyed most of those memories, and he couldn't say he wasn't glad to have them gone. But they would return, sometimes. In bits and pieces, when his mind would drift and wander, unlocking things in his mind he knew were best left buried. He waved the thoughts away. He was wasting time. The Stealth Boy could only last so long.

The sun had set, twilight's blue hue left Charon stumbling in the dark. He paused and forced himself to focus on his task and, more specifically, his silence. He quieted his steps to a deathly silent cadence as he made his way through the dark to the first shack. To his irritation, he found nothing of any worth other than the barracks and few scattered uniforms. Charon barely glanced at the skeletons, burned away or picked clean by wandering animals.

The second shack held little more interest, but did have a few scattered water bottles Charon stored inside his pack for later use. The third, however, was the key to his trip. He climbed down to the basement and through an average door, it's lock rusted off, and found the diamond in the rough. The metallic walls told Charon he was where he was meant to be.

He was pleased until he actually took a good look at those walls.

Graffiti with the gang symbols any Wastelander could understand in an instant stained the sides. Blood in the forms of smeared hand marks swept across the floor at Charon's feet, indicating dragging. The blood trailed around the corner, and Charon gripped his sidearm in preparatory as he looked across the hall. He turned the corner and began to hear the voices.

"Hey, man, that freezer's startin' to _stink_. We gotta clear it out soon."

"Yea? Tell Sammy to do it. I got betta things to do with my time than take out the trash."

"You plannin' on sharin' that Jet, or am I gonna have to make ya?"

"Just try it, moron. I got more than enough firepower to blow you away."

Charon set into a crouch and approached the voices silently. He looked to see two men set over a barreled fire, planted on a ruined couch.

Raiders.

Charon scoffed in annoyance. He was being sent here because Jabsco couldn't handle a few drugged thugs? But still, Charon drew his knife protectively as he crawled silently toward them.

"Look, man, I worked good for this stuff."

"Bullcrap! I worked just as hard as you to get the meathead Mercs outta here! You just got to the goods first."

"Finders keepers."

"Bull freaking crap."

Charon sighed. He loathed Raiders more than any enemy in the Wastes. Moronic imbeciles that thought they were better than anyone else. Sadistic and selfish punks. But Charon knew this enemy well. They were crude and moronic. Easy to manipulate. Easy to psyche out. Charon looked around quickly. A radio rested quietly. He wondered if the batteries still worked...

* * *

_"Hey everybody! Here's some news, gather around, about a guy named Butcher Pete!"_

The two Raiders jumped up, their drugged reflexes quick but crude. They each swore loudly as the music blasted loudly.

"Who turned on that radio?"

"It was probably Spike. That idiot thinks he can scare me?"

The Raider laughed. "Spike's been dead for two weeks now, ya lousy drunk."

"I'm goin' over there. That radio had to be turned on by _someone_."

The other Raider laughed. "Fine. If you see Spike's ghost, tell him I'm not sorry for pissing all over his sorry corpse."

"Ah, screw you."

The first Raider staggered over to the next room, wherever that sound was coming from. His metal boots clanked clumsily as he stepped through the blood trails, greeting stupidly the caged, rotting skeleton in the corner. That one had been an interesting toy, the Raider briefly remembered. He liked to scream. It was always fun when they thought their screams could make a difference in anything. A lot of things were fun when he was on Jet.

The Raider stood where the radio sat, glowing faintly. He shifted from foot to foot in the darkness, the drug keeping him from standing still. He tried to feel for the light switch, but subsequently gave up after two minutes. He looked around at the shadows.

"Hey, Spike!" he called out, even though he was pretty sure Spike was dead. He tried to remember. Spike was out looking for some food, and there were Super Mutants? No, he was taking a dump and didn't see the Regulator come up from behind? No, That wasn't it either. "Hey, Spike?" he called again. "If you're dead, how did you turn on the radio?"

_"He's hackin' and wackin' and smackin'..."_

"Spike?"

There was a click of a gun. Then it's silenced, deadly shot.

* * *

The second Raider was too busy inhaling his Jet to remember his partner. Or his lack of a partner. Not until the knife was at his throat or the hand gripped his shoulder from behind, of course.

The Raider numbly said, "Hey! If you think this is funny, Sammy, I got a shotgun that says differently."

"So do I."

Realization hit the Raider hard. He tried to turn to his his assailant, but the grip was firm and sure. So unlike his fellow Raiders, this enemy had a purpose. A reason. The Raiders were senseless. Everything about them random and lost. Wandering, aimless souls, killing and thieving at every turn with no care of the consequences. They were not Charon. Charon saw a reason behind everything. He had one, sole purpose in life; the likes of which made everything else pale and hollow outside. He would always follow his contract. That was his honor. His purpose.

"Who are you?" the Raider asked.

Charon didn't reply. "How many of you are here?"

"Who are you!"

"I have the knife. I am the one who asks the questions." Charon calmly and coolly repeated his question. "How many of you are there?"

"Six. The others are out on a raid."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes! Let me go now!"

Charon glanced up at the cages. The corpses were of men and woman, each permanently set in a look of twisted agony. The blood that marked the walls now had a face for Charon. He had to look away.

He replied coldly, "No."

* * *

Charon's ruined face met the cool night air. The requested gun was set firmly in his hands. A laser rifle. There was little special about it, and Charon understood why. The gun had never been the goal.

He had passed the test.

He crunched through the sifting sand under the starry night. For a moment, there was no sound other than his footsteps.

Then there was the blast.

The cache went up in flames, the explosions Charon had planted caving in the hidden vault. There would be no more Raider attacks in this area. This Raider gang would see the danger in tangling with Talon Company now. And this would serve as a message to any who heard of this news. Charon had fulfilled his first task. His second would come soon enough now. His mistress would be pleased if she saw him now.

Charon was beyond doubt. He was beyond wonder. His entire world and purpose revolved around one simple task. One single piece of paper. And one key, easy phrase that he would always know and say, time and time again.

"As you command."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Deal with the Devil**

The screams came as they always did, agonized and desperate, but they were hollow in Betty's ears.

"Oh, be careful little eyes what you see," Betty sang quietly as she watched one of the men tear out his own eyeballs in delusion. "Oh, be careful little eyes what you see..."

What a sad, sad state of affairs. She skipped without any real spring as she continued down the sidewalk that had been recently splattered with blood. The scent flowed through her nose, yet she her senses were not thrilled.

"Oh, be careful little ears what you hear," she watched a woman cut off the ears of another. "Oh, be careful little ears what you hear..."

The woman with the blade heard the small song of the girl and looked up. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Betty, and she finished with the other woman quickly by slitting her throat and hurried over to the girl.

"Betty! I did it! I did it just like you said!"

"Oh, be careful little mouth what you say..."

"You were right. She never came right out and admitted it, but I know you were right. She is responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened to me! And she got what was coming to her." The woman's expression turned from joy to sorrow. "Oh, but look at my dress! It's soiled now with _her_ blood. Fine. It'll be the last thing she ever ruined."

"Oh, be careful little mouth what you say..." Betty smiled with all the sweetness of the world, raised her small hand, and struck the woman down where she stood.

Betty turned to the man writhing in pain on the floor and did the same, ending his agony. Not because she cared. Because his screams offered her no pleasure, gave her no satisfaction. Just a headache.

Betty frowned. She looked around at Tranquility Lane and was angered. All wrong. Everything wrong! Betty raised her hands and watched the streets disappear before her eyes. Blackness came in.

Betty was alone. So very, very alone.

She sat down on nothing and pulled her legs in, resting her small chin on her knees.

Everyone was gone. And she was left behind. Betty had no idea how long it had been, but it felt like years. Years of solitude. Years of cold without warmth.

The Lone Wanderer. That cursed, Lone Wanderer! Betty hated her. Betty despised her with every bitter, heated breath escaping her mouth. Would she be here now, Betty would have gladly shown her what agony meant. Every amount of pain imaginable Betty craved to give that loathsome Lone Wanderer.

She had ended it.

Their pain, their suffering, their slavery. She had stolen it from Betty and shattered it in a thousand awful pieces.

The people of the vault were dead now, after two hundred years of agony, and Betty was left alone.

For a short while, Betty had tried to ignore the situation. She used simulated beings just as she used simulated places. She would just pretend, she thought. Pretend that their pain was true, that their agony was alive.

But she couldn't. Everything was so... empty.

Oh, Betty yearned for some end, or some beginning. Every day was a never ending verbatim of the same hour of the same day of the same year. She craved something new. Something real. Not something synthesized or pseudo biological, but something she could truly touch, feel and smell. She desired real, warm blood. But she was here, no matter how many times she closed her eyes and pretended she wasn't, she still found herself trapped in this endless helplessness. This endless state of artificial life.

Betty curled into a ball and waited. Waited for something to happen.

She had no idea how long it was before he showed up.

He appeared into the blackness like a beacon. Betty sat up with sudden excitement. Someone new? Here? Someone new to play with! What fun! She looked about herself, brushing off any dirt she saw, despite the fact that there was no dirt to be found in the blackness she had been wallowing in.

"Hello!" she called happily. "Come and see me!"

The man cocked his head in amusement at the sight of the child, and went to her. "Hmm," he said upon approach. "My, Dr. Braun, how you differ from the description in the records of you."

Betty frowned. "What are you talking about? My name is Betty. Don't you know _anything_?" she crossed her arms.

"Doctor, please. I don't feel up to playing any games today."

"Oh, but we have so much we can do! It's been so long since I've had someone to play with! Oh, here, let me give us a more comfortable setting." Betty shut her eyes, materializing a Pre-War living room out of thin air.

"Impressive," the stranger said. "But I would be more impressed to see your true form, Doctor."

"But this _is _ my true form! My name is Betty! I'm not a doctor, although we could play doctor if you wanted to! I haven't played doctor with someone in so long! But I'm not a _real_ doctor. That would just be silly. I'm too little!"

The stranger looked Betty up and down. "Yes, I suppose you are." Then, to himself, muttered, "I wonder if the good doctor hasn't gone a little nutso in the two hundred years he's been away from the real world, hmm...?"

"What are you saying, mister? I think you're confused so I'll try to explain one more time: My name is Betty. I can do lotsa cool things! Wanna see?" she opened a little palm, but the stranger took it and shut it again gently.

"Oh, no," he said. "I don't need any of that. I just wanted to talk. That's a lovely dress you have on."

Betty gathered the hem in her hands and did a twirl. "Do you really like it? I made it myself."

"Mhhmm," the stranger nodded. "Very impressive. Say, Betty, would you happen to have something to drink for me? I've come from very far and I'm very thirsty."

Betty's eyes widened. "Oh, sure, mister! I betcha a Nuka-Cola is just what you need." Again, she opened her palm, but this time the man made no move to stop her. She made a quick, strained face, and a bottled soda appeared into her hand. "Here you are, mister!"

The man took it gingerly, and took a sip. "It tastes actually real..."

"Of course it does! You're weird." Betty was growing bored. She stretched her arms out and flopped onto the couch. A voodoo doll appeared by her side. She briefly hugged it, then proceeded to rip out it's stitches. The stranger watched in fascination.

"Betty?" he asked. "Do you like to play with toys?"

"Oh, yea! Lotsa toys! And people, too, sometimes."

"People?"

Betty stopped, looked at the man, and immediately tears began to well up in her eyes. She buried her face in the doll, it's stuffing falling out. "Oh, mister! I used to be able to do so many things when I played with people! I could paint pretty pictures with their blood! I could make a tune with their screams! Oh, mister, I miss being able to play!" She looked at the doll and frowned. Her face darkened. "I want to play!" she tossed the doll at the wall and sobbed.

The man stood and stepped over to the child. "There, there." He stroked her hair. "Betty, I may be able to help you."

She stopped, and stared up at him. "You can?"

"Maybe. But in order to do that, we need to stop playing. Just for a little while, okay? You seem like a very mature little girl, you should understand that we have to work before we can play. Do you think we could be a little serious before we have our fun?"

Betty cocked her head and stared at him blankly. "Sure, mister. I think I could do that."

"Good. Now, Betty, I've heard that you are a very smart girl. In fact, I've heard that you alone know how to unlock some very tricky things that I need to learn about. Do you think you could help me?"

"I guess so. I'm not _so_ smart, though."

"Oh, but Betty, you are. Doctor Stanislaus Braun, I need to learn all you know about the Garden of Eden Creation Kit. It's shortened to G.E.C.K. Can you tell me about it, Doctor?"

Betty sat up, smiled a twisted smile that almost reached her ears, and spoke. Her voice twisted into two, one of the small child and one of a man of much older years, his accent thick. "Of course. I can tell you aaalll about it. But, what exactly is in it for me?"

The stranger took a deep gulp of the soda and grinned. "Well, Doctor, I've heard many stories about you. Some are very old. But some, one in particular, are very new. The one isn't a very happy tale, unfortunately. It's about a girl looking for a father. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that story, would you?"

The child's eyes set into murder. "Yes. Yes, I do." She glared at the man. "Why?"

"I heard that this girl made things very inconvenient for you."

"What is your point, mister?" her words dripped like venom.

"I can give her to you. I can give you the one who ruined your perfect little existence here. How does that sound, little Doctor?"

The child stared at the man for a long time, not quite sure if he was speaking in truth, or if this was a trick. But... she weighed the options. She had little choice in reality. She could continue to wallow in this lifelessness, or she could risk a short while of work for the possibility of an eternity of satisfaction. Besides, Betty glanced at the stranger. If the fool did decide to betray her, she could always have her own fun with this one. A new toy of any kind was a welcoming change of pace. She turned to the man. "And how do you know of this woman?"

The man smiled. "I have her follower working for me. I could easily find out where she lives. And then drag her out by the hair, if I so chose." He laid back and shrugged. "I just need a little time to get the pawns set up for my little plan."

"And just what is your plan, um...?"

"Jabsco. Commander Jabsco. My plan, Doctor, is really none of your concern. You know the old saying, don't you? 'Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.'" He shook his head. "I'll keep my plan to myself. All you need to know is that I need the G.E.C.K and all the information I can find on it. Then I can turn the world back on it's heals. The Capital Wasteland first, of course." The man swigged the last of the Nuka-Cola. "I can get you the Lone Wanderer. What more could you ask for?"

Betty was silent for a moment. "Nothing, I suppose."

"Good. Then we're agreed. Rest easy, Doc. I'll be back soon."

"Wait, where are you going?"

The man gave her a charming smile. "There are still a lot of players I have to set before this game can begin. But don't worry. We'll have a lot of fun soon."

Betty stared, then nodded. She shut her eyes again, the common place area disappearing. A door stood alone in the blackness.

"Goodbye, Doctor. I hope we'll get to play soon."

Betty watched him leave, hands folded neatly against her legs. Her eyes were hollow as she watched him leave. Her hair seemed to wave despite the lack of wind. She was a pale ghost against the dead landscape.

She smiled again, and began to hum, the tune echoing hauntingly. "Oh, be careful little feet what you go..."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Another chapter for you all. I'm sorry for it's short length, but hopefully it's not too bad on it's own. Read. Enjoy. Review. It's a nice cycle, isn't it? Everyone should keep it going.

* * *

"Charon, come over here."

The Ghoul rolled his eyes and finished cocking his shotgun back, finally clicking the safety on. The new gun shone brightly against the sun. It would be a reliable one, he knew. Something he had found among the shopkeeper's many various knickknacks, propped unceremoniously against a dust stained, useless gnome. Charon had developed an eye for such guns. He could tell just by holding one in his rough, raw hands whether it was worth the time or caps. And he had to admit, after polishing it so thoroughly, he was developing a slight attachment to this shotgun already. This would be a gun he would keep with him for quite a while.

"Charon, I _order _you to come here now!"

Charon flinched as his head began to pound with his hesitation. Reluctantly, he stood from the tipped vending machine. He stalked toward his master.

This one, Charon found, was especially incompetent. With no tact and no instincts, Charon was curious of how someone as foolish as his new employer could ever get his hands on the Ghoul's contract. Charon wondered how someone could _let_ this man have his contract. It was a waste of time and resources, Charon decided. He could be used for so much more. Tiredly, he he stood tall against his master and grunted a sound of submission. "What is it you desire from me, Master?"

The master reached around his pack, withdrawing a shining object. Charon tried to catch a glimpse—it did not have the shape of a gun, but the man swiftly hid it behind his back. Charon sighed. He was going to have to play the guessing game, was he?

"Listen, Charon, I was thinking about your... reluctance recently. You're constantly questioning my orders, and I don't like it.

Charon replied coolly, "I do not say a word, Master. I obey what you command."

"Don't give me that. I can see it in your face. You think I'm some kind of idiot, huh? Well, I'm sick of it. I am not a moron, I'm your master. And you'll treat me as such."

Charon said nothing. He stared at the master and waited for some kind of point. The master smiled. "You wanna know what I think the problem is? I think you don't understand your role properly. You, you are mine. And you're going to understand that now." He revealed the item behind is back, and Charon growled at the sight of it.

A slave collar.

"I am no slave," Charon said firmly.

"Yes you are, Charon," the master nodded. "And this is yours."

"No," Charon insisted. "I am not. My contract states that you are my commander, but I am _not_ your slave. I am owned by no one. I will not wear a slave collar and be treated as such."

"Oh, really? You won't wear the collar?" The man made a show of pulling out Charon's contract. Charon stared ahead and didn't meet the eyes of the master as he said mockingly, "It says you are to do as I command."

"For _combat_ and _survival_, Master. Not for your own amusement."

"Hmm, I don't see anything about that here..."

Charon's head snapped over to him. "What are you saying?"

"Well, look right here," the master showed the contract to Charon. A large mass of ink covered half of the words on the flimsy piece of paper Charon called his life. "It doesn't seem to have any limitations at all."

Charon spoke slowly, "You damaged my contract."

"I rewrote it. I think it's far better this way, if you ask me. Now, please..." the man held out the collar. "Put it on."

_Bang!_

The collar—and the man, fell to the floor. Charon paused for a moment to place his shotgun on his back. He already liked this gun very much. Carefully, Charon picked the contract off of the previous holder's corpse, and said quietly, "It seems you forgot to read over the final notes, Master." He gave a slight smirk as he read his _former_ master's damning words:

_"This document may not be edited, deleted, or destroyed in any manner. If the contract's integrity is lost, the perpetrator is to be shot on sight and a new copy of the contract written in it's place."_

_

* * *

_

Charon shook himself from the memory as he glared at the bent up sign happily advertising Paradise Falls. He glowered at the giant man with the ice cream cone as the statue all too optimistically smiled back at the Ghoul. He hated this place. He loathed every inch of it.

Slavers.

Charon always spat the word out. It was like poison rolling on his tongue. Slavers.

Charon knew that, although this job was taken purely for the caps, Charon was going to enjoy taking down a slaver. Charon tried to calm himself at the dangerously vengeful thought. He had to be tactful. Over-avidity was the great distraction. He was a trained soldier, not some mercenary. No, Charon was going to focus. Only then would he truly be able to pride himself on his work.

He pulled his gun off of his back and set his sights on the guards in the entrance of the Slaver base. Charon gave a sideway glance at his skin, understanding what the patches of gruesomely burned flesh, almost orange from the irradiated sun's exposure, would do for him when he tried to enter. The guards were not going to be kind to a Ghoul. Still, Charon found himself interested in the possible reactions. If anything, it would be entertaining.

Charon haphazardly checked to be sure everything was ready to be used and fired if needed. He kept his ever-reliable shotgun in his hands and slowly started down the hill toward the Slave base.

He didn't notice the Mesmatron pointed his way until it fired.


End file.
